When Absence Became Madness - The Illness of Waiting - Part 4

 Waiting became her religion.

Every morning had one prayer.

Every road had one direction.

Every heartbeat asked the same question—

Will Arjun come today?

She stopped caring about classes entirely. Notes remained unfinished. Assignments gathered dust. Teachers called her inattentive. Friends drifted away, tired of speaking to someone whose eyes were always fixed elsewhere.

But none of it mattered.

At nine-twelve, life began.

If Arjun appeared, she felt alive.

If he did not, she became unrecognizable.

She would pace corridors, bite her nails till they bled, snap at anyone who came near. Once, when a classmate jokingly blocked her view of the gate, she shoved the girl so hard that everyone fell silent.

Even she was shocked.

But only for a second.

Because Arjun had just arrived.

She forgot the apology.

She forgot the crowd.

She forgot shame itself.

He walked past in a pale grey shirt, adjusting his watch, unaware that someone had nearly become violent for the right to see him clearly.

That evening, she stood before the mirror.

“What is happening to me?” she whispered.

The mirror gave no answer.

Her mother noticed the weight loss first.

“You hardly eat.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“You hardly sleep.”

“I’m fine.”

“You keep staring outside.”

She smiled weakly and escaped to her room.

There, hidden under clothes in a drawer, she kept strange treasures:

A tissue that had fallen near where he stood.
A wrapper from the tea stall he once visited.
Dates written on paper of the days he wore white, blue, black.
Timings of his arrivals.
The direction he walked.
The rare days he looked happy.

It was ridiculous.

It was shameful.

It was sacred.

One afternoon, heavy rain flooded the streets. Students ran for shelter. She remained at the gate getting drenched, refusing to move.

“He won’t come in this weather,” a guard said.

She ignored him.

Minutes later, through the curtain of rain, Arjun appeared holding a file over his head.

She laughed like a child.

Rainwater mixed with tears on her face.

He hurried past without seeing her.

Still, she returned home glowing.

That night fever gripped her body.

Her mother pressed her forehead in alarm.

“You stood in the rain, didn’t you?”

She turned to the wall and smiled weakly.

Yes.

For him.

The fever lasted two days.

Yet even shivering in bed, her first question each morning was:

“What time is it?”

Because if it was near nine-twelve, somewhere outside, Arjun might be walking.

And she was missing him.

The thought hurt more than fever.

Far away, without knowing her name, Arjun continued living.

Closer than anyone, she was already disappearing.